Jump!

The idea of writing about life on the farm hit me while I lay sprawled on the road after this . . .

Jump!

Our first lot of summer visitors marvelled at the way bulls and steers turned obediently and walked through gates but two days later our second group of guests discovered they did no such thing. 
On one of the intervening days, the farmer and I visited Auckland where we ate lunch while circuiting at Orbit, the cafe atop Sky Tower.While he downed a beer, I sipped a cocktail unaware that it's name - Jump - would become the theme of my week.

The following day while the farmer and dogs mustered the cattle, I stood on the road ready to direct them into their lush new paddock.

The round up took so long I got to thinking that the grass in the gateway was, well, so long. Would the cattle notice the open gate? I stomped the grass flat, bizarrely even folding down seed heads in my effort to make the gate a yawning invitation.

When the bulls arrived, I motioned them into their new home. But the last bull hesitated, bucked and, to my disbelief, started running - towards me.

I screamed, waved, jumped, yahooed and bellowed then, at the last possible second, jumped left. At the crucial moment the bull side-stepped right, like Jonah Lomu (only bigger) going for the tryline, and thundered down the road.

The farmer zoomed up on the quad grinning crazily. "How's your little heart?"

It wasn't great and got worse as images of the charging bull replayed endlessly in my mind.

Leap to the next day: Same place, same programme, different victims - two bulls that missed the muster.

The audience: our guests who retreated to their car as the bulls approached.

I stood my ground unfazed. The first bull, a monstrous thing, eyed the gate then charged on through it. Perfect!

Behind him a six-month-old mainly white Friesian took a scornful glance at the paddock then kept coming and coming and coming while I screamed, waved, jumped, yahooed and bellowed.

Then his head went down. Then he rammed it into my stomach. Then he effortlessly picked me up and tossed me aside. Then I landed - with a thud and scoring a crunched shoulder, sore hip and lots of sympathy from our alarmed friends who'd watched open-mouthed.

We found "whitey" miles down the farm. He’d jumped a cattle stop and kept running, but the big bull hasn't been seen since.

As the Bermuda Triangle hasn't moved to Kaipara, I wonder if there was something powerful that Jump cocktail. I don't want the recipe.